One

Posted: 24/02/2014 in Poetry

Twenty every minute, a thousand an hour. You slept as ten thousand passed you by.

I cannot lie that I have laid awake at night counting each one of my breaths as they passed out of my mouth, through my chest, signifying not life but moments closer to our inevitable deaths.

Who among us cherishes each one? Not a single inhale wasted but lived and fought for like it was our last one? Who among us says carpe diem and not tomorrow it can be done?

One. One hundred and one. When will our counting be done that we can no longer remember what was wasted on each one?

‘I hold this dagger for myself for when it pleases my country to need my death’ Brutus said over the death of his beloved one. We remember them today, but tomorrow they and we, and I, and you, will be history. But not remembered but recorded, for each and every last one of us will not have each other’s story to tell of the breath of that one or this one where victory, love, or defeat was done.

One. Two. One again as clocks tick over another day undone. Time humorous to the ones that have already come and gone. They watch up above, down below, or nowhere, who among us thinks their clocks continue to tick when our bodies give way on our final sun?

Twenty every minute, a thousand an hour. Ten thousand will pass you by tonight. How many in their next inhale will do what they are afraid to be done? To make that one breath count. Just once. For one breath never breathes twice, just as you will never come again.

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Comments
  1. aelwakil says:

    This is beautiful.

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